


Points of Departure

by Canon_Is_Relative, ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kid Fic, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock, John, and Lestrade wrap their final case together, publicity surrounding Sherlock's retirement leads Calvin to discover the secret his parents have been keeping from him all his life. Meanwhile, Sherlock prepares to ask Lestrade the question he's been dreading for months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Points of Departure

To: Sherlock Holmes  
From: John

Subject: Retirement Announcement

Attached: 1 File

Sherlock,

Here's the announcement for the blog. Since we're planning on telling Greg tomorrow about your retirement, I figured that this could go out at the end of the week. Let me know what you think.

Also, there's a package for you in the kitchen. You're going to be home tonight, right? It's just that it keeps vibrating, and if you're not home by dinnertime then I'm putting it outside. Don't need you blowing the place up. Again.

Love,  
John

  


* * *

To: John Watson  
From: Sherlock

Subject: Re: Retirement Announcement

John. Dear John. You are far too kind, as always. And far too ridiculous. "A Case for a King, a fitting final act for the curtain call on a long and lustrous career." Oh, my love. Your readers will love it. Those in search of high literature, as always, will go elsewhere.

Were we planning on telling Lestrade tomorrow? What kind of "we" was that, was it the kind where you were talking while I was busy doing something more interesting and my agreement was inferred?

Package can be placed in the hallway, if it concerns you. The self-crowned king of Kyrgyzstan explicitly stated that it was a disarmed bomb he was sending along, so I wouldn’t worry so much. Will you be retrieving Calvin tonight? Won't be in until late.

SH

  


* * *

To: Sherlock Holmes  
From: John

Subject: Re: Retirement Announcement

Sher,

It will never fail to amaze me how expressive you are in your writing. How often do you deride me for being too sentimental, and my blog posts for being "too romantic"?

Never change, love.

But even so, it would be nice if it was all wrapped with a bang and a splashy news report by the end of the week, being Sherlock Holmes’s Last Case and all. My hit count wouldn't complain either, I haven't had the drop on the press in too long and it's my last shot at it. Are you sure you don't mind the title? I know it was so long ago but I still worry sometimes about referencing anything to do with Moriarty and those days. It just seemed fitting, is all, considering how Greg's helping, and it's your last case and all.

We're having Greg over for dinner, don't you remember? It was your idea, after all. I just assumed that you meant to tell him then; you _always_ have an ulterior motive when it comes to seemingly altruistic acts. If it was just to talk over him advising you on the case I don't know why you'd be going through the fuss of dinner. 

We can hold off, of course, but I strongly advise against putting this off any longer. Regardless of whether or not you tell him about the country tomorrow, he won't appreciate finding out about your retirement from a blog post, or some other secondary source. And he certainly won't appreciate knowing that he was not the first you told.

Calvin can find his own way home. He's been driving for a while now, and navigating the Tube on his own since he was thirteen. Sometimes I think you forget how much he's grown.

So do I.

Stay safe, whatever you're doing. I'll see you in the morning.

Much love,  
J

  


* * *

To: John Watson  
From: Sherlock

Subject: Re: Retirement Announcement

John,

Of course I remember we're having Lestrade for dinner, don't be absurd.

I would prefer to broach the topic of the country at another time. Things have been difficult, recently; I recognize that, of course. Calvin's unacknowledged infatuation with Skye and Lestrade's preoccupation with his own mortality makes it difficult to talk sense to either of them. When you've spoken to Calvin about moving to the country, and my retirement, let me know and I'll move forward with our plans with regard to communicating our request to Lestrade.

God damn it, John. This is hell on me and you know it. I don't know how you expect me to do this when just yesterday he texted me how alive he felt to wake up to a proper London morning, with Toby back living with him and a case on for the Yard. It's been months since Toby went back to him but I believe that every morning, still, it's a reminder of the misery he endured, being too ill even to care for his dog. I don't know what "romance" you see in me but I assure you it's all in your head.

SH

  


* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, answer your phone. Goddammit, you know I can't just write you an email, not after that. Oh, damn it all to hell."

"Sherlock. I'm sorry for hanging up like that. Look, you're making this out to be a much bigger deal than it actually is. Oh, that sounds awful. Er -"

"Okay, me again. I just mean to say that I think Lestrade will be very amenable to the idea of moving with us. Yes, he's happy here in London. He's happy on his own, and I saw as well as you did how ecstatic he was to have Toby back, and to be working with you again. But that case will be over, Sherlock, you'll wrap it and... oh, fuck."

"Yeah, it's me. Again. After this I'll leave it alone. I - damn, Sherlock, it's just that I'm so tired of being the bad guy. Please, can't you see that? I don't _want_ Lestrade to have to give up his independence. I don't want to retire, and I damn well don't want you to either. Especially you. It's hell for me too, going through all this, and for once I'd like you to acknowledge that. You aren't the only one who loves him. And he's not the only one who loves you."

\------- 

Text from: Sherlock

_Thank you, John. I'll see you tonight._

\-------- 

Text from: Sherlock

_That sounded angry, didn't it. It wasn't meant to be. I meant, thank you. You've given me much to think about, as always. I'll be home tonight, earlier than planned. This can wait._

  


* * *

“They've gone mental.”

Calvin shook his head, fishing in his pockets for a lighter as they trudged down the stairs out of school. Mandy frowned at him, disapproving, as he lit a cigarette as soon as they were out the gate and off school property. He leaned against a tree and looked at her. The rest of their small band of friends – misfits and misanthropists, mostly; Calvin had found himself with little time or energy to spend on anyone who wasn't Skye, as turbulent as their friendship had been of late – had melted away as soon as the last bell of the day had sounded above their heads. Calvin had been in a foul mood and hadn't minded letting everyone know about it. But Mandy was still there, hadn't let him run her off, and now she was looking at him with something akin to concern, though there was a definite layer of amusement running beneath it. 

“Bit dramatic, yeah?” she teased - she was _always_ saying that about him. He blew a stream of smoke in her face in retaliation, and she punched his shoulder, but didn’t leave. He mutely offered her a cigarette, knowing she would refuse, and though she did, she also dropped her bag and joined him in his pensive silence.

He was glad of her company, for a change not wanting to be alone. It'd been nearly a week since his parents had announced, while they were having dinner with Uncle Greg, that Sherlock was retiring. And then came John's private communication to him that same night in Calvin's room, just the two of them, that they were planning to ask Uncle Greg to move with them to the country. _A death watch_

“Calvin Holmes-Watson?” The unfamiliar voice broke across the downward spiral of his thoughts. Calvin scowled, sure he was about to be chewed out for smoking by some stupid teacher

He glanced at Mandy and saw her wide eyes fixed on whoever-it-was behind him, her arms crossed defensively over her chest as she demanded, “Who's asking?”

Calvin snorted, grinding his cigarette out against the low wall, still not looking around. “You sound like our PE teacher, Mandy.”

The voice spoke again. “Calvin, do you have any comment to make about your father's retirement that he announced on the weekend?”

Calvin wasn't laughing anymore as he spun around. He looked hard at the tall, slick-looking man in front of him, taking in his clothes (designed to look expensive but the prints didn't line up on the seams of the shirt and his trouser pockets gapped) and the ring on his finger (looked like a wedding ring but poor quality, probably a front) and the tablet he held (the one truly quality thing about him - Calvin recognized the brand and _damn_ but it was pricey; the man held it aimed at Calvin and a steady red light showed it was recording). “Mirror or Daily Mail?” he asked, doing his best to sound very bored as he flicked the cigarette away.

“My name is Ian Hardley. I was just hoping to have a few words with you on how the Holmes-Watson family is handling this transition.”

“Well, Mr Hardley – 'hardly' what? Hardly literate, I'm guessing? Hardly making it? You must be scraping bottom if this is really what you think is good news.”

“What happened to make your father decide so suddenly to take himself out of the game again?”

“I'm pretty sure anything I have to say to you would be miles above anything your readers could understand.” Anger was boiling just below the surface. It must have come through plain as anything in his voice; Mandy had her arm around him as was trying to pull him away. Calvin stood fast. The reporter was unfazed. 

"Your other father - I'm sorry, what is it you call him?"

"His name is John," Calvin said tightly.

That wasn't the answer the reporter was looking for, apparently, but he pressed on regardless.

"Yes, well, Mr Watson called it 'A Case for a King,' and seems to think it's the crowning achievement of Mr Holmes's career. What do _you_ think?" 

Calvin shook Mandy off him once more, gaping at the reporter. "Are you seriously asking me this? Do you have any idea what my dads are gonna do to _you_ when they find out that you're messing with me?"

The reporter jumped on this. "And what's it _like_ , Calvin, what's it been like, I mean, do you feel privileged, growing up with such famous parents?"

Calvin looked him up and down once more before intoning, deadpan, "Well I never had to earn my living on my knees like you do so if that's privilege then yeah, I feel like the bloody Prince of Wales."

"I mean," the man's voice was tight but he kept his calm admirably, "do you feel as though having parents like Mr Watson and Mr Holmes has given you a head start in life? What was it like, growing up in the shadow of their fame? Were you ever affected by the Great Fall?"

"I -" Calvin's retort died in his throat. "I'm - sorry, what? The 'Great Fall'?"

The reporter looked eager. "Oh, perhaps you call it something different. It's just something I picked up from Mr Watson's blog. Your father's death - Sherlock's death, I mean. How did that affect you, growing up?"

"Wha - what? What the - the _fuck_ do you mean, his 'death'? My father is alive, you piss-artist. What do you mean, The Great Fall?"

"Oh, you know," the reporter went on cheerfully. "I suppose it's probably not called that in your house. But when your father - Mr Holmes - threw himself off the roof of Barts in an effort to stop Moriarty. It was years before you were born, of course, but how did that shape your childhood? How did Mr Holmes do it? He never has revealed that to the public, you know."

Calvin recovered himself quickly, the shock of it all snapping his brain into order.

"Then it wouldn't be my place to reveal it, would it?" he said smoothly. "No, it didn't affect my childhood. Any other questions?" The reporter blinked at him, a slight flush creeping up his neck. Calvin couldn't quite bring himself to feel any pleasure at his discomfort, just a cold, gnawing sensation in his stomach. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. 

The reporter licked his lips, and tried one last tack. "Do you think that what Mr Holmes did today, leaping off Millenium Bridge onto a speedboat in pursuit of a murderer armed with a katana and a semi-automatic, was to remind us all of that time, both his finest and darkest hour?"

"I can't speak for what he was thinking," Calvin said coolly, trying to keep a cap on his emotions. He couldn't let the reporter see his bewilderment. That would quickly make a bad situation even worse. "But whatever it was, I'm sure he had the public's best interests in mind. Are we done?"

Calvin didn't wait to hear if they were done, he simply turned and, grabbing Mandy (who he nearly had forgotten about), he stalked away.

When they were out of earshot she hissed at him, "What the _hell_ was that all about, then? 'The Great Fall'? Jumping off a bridge? Your dad is - "

"Shut up," he ground out through his teeth. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to hear about it." He let go of her arm. "I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow."

  


* * *

Sherlock left his experiment simmering on the stove, going up to the bedroom to try on his black suit, as he'd told John he would. He had scarcely regained the kitchen, was still buttoning his cuffs, when the door downstairs opened, and a laborious tread on the stairs told him that Lestrade was approaching. 

“What is it, Lestrade?” he called from the kitchen as Lestrade entered. “I’m very busy, last case and all. And you’re supposed to be interviewing -”

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Lestrade cut him off sharply. "Dying once on us wasn't enough for you?"

"What are you on about, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked finally. A muscle leaped in Lestrade’s jaw, and then he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. 

Sherlock was on him before he could register the decision to move - he pulled Lestrade's fist away from the wall, not caring that his grip on Lestrade's wrist was probably painful. He shook the older man, hissing, "You've told me on more than one occasion, Lestrade, that it is considered _rude_ to go into another's home and put holes in his walls."

Releasing him, Sherlock stepped back and folded his arms over his chest, waiting on an explanation.

"And I've _also_ told you," Lestrade hissed, leaning close, their noses only centimeters apart, "that if you ever pulled an _asinine_ stunt like that swan dive off of Barts again, I'd see to it that you could never come within a mile of the Yard again."

"Perhaps my _memory_ is as faulty as yours, _old man_ ," Sherlock growled, "but I seem to recall that you retired and thus have no influence over the Yard."

"Retired, yes," Lestrade snapped. "Influence, on the other hand... How do you think I found out about this afternoon, hey? Telepathy? I swear to God, Sherlock -"

"Oh for God's sake, Lestrade," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes but not pulling away. "Is that what this is about? You should know very well that what I was doing today was not _asinine_. You are the one who told me to see the Mortimer case through to the end. You would have done the same thing in my position, don't bother to argue that you wouldn't have." 

"Don't you try to fucking turn this around on me. The point here is not what I would have done," Lestrade snapped. "The point is that you nearly _died_ today. Does that mean nothing to you? For God's sakes, did you even _think_ about John and Calvin?"

Sherlock felt cold anger rise up, flooding him in a wave more powerful than anything he'd felt in many, many years. His defenses slammed into place - his face went blank, his eyes hard.

"How many times," each word was short and flinty, his jaw tight, "are you going to ask me that _ridiculous_ question, Lestrade? Who are  _you_ to question me?" 

"Who am I - Sherlock, twenty-one years ago John watched you throw yourself to _what he thought_ was your death!" Lestrade punctuated the final word with a jab at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stared back at him, stony-faced, a muscle in his jaw leaping as Lestrade's finger touched him. "You then made us believe you were dead for all that time. So yeah, I think I've earned the right to ask _what the bloody hell you were thinking today!"_

"Greg, I am so _fucking tired_ ," Sherlock hissed, "of _begging_ forgiveness for saving your life. And John's. When will you accept that I had _no choice_ but to jump?"

"And I'm tired of burying children," Lestrade said, his voice hushed.  


That pulled Sherlock up short and he looked away, taking a step back from Lestrade and his accusing words, away from the _something_ in his eyes and his voice that Sherlock didn't know how to name. He ran his hands down the front of his immaculately pressed suit jacket - tried it on today to ensure it still fits. Does; pleasing. Five years old, still in good condition. Funeral on the weekend, someone John had known in the army. Distasteful and dull, but another thing that being part of this family entails, and for that he will attend with equanimity. Secure in his suit, his suit of armour, armed with the selfish satisfaction that the years may take their toll on others but not on him. Years; years that John's friend no longer has, that Lestrade is running out of. _Jack_ \- and when he spoke his voice was low, hesitant.

"You are behaving," his eyes fixed on a point over Lestrade's shoulder, "as though what I did today is on par with Jack's illness and death. I fail to see the connection.”

“No, you just don’t  want  to see it, sunshine,” Lestrade said brusquely, the name heavy with the anger that still gripped him; Sherlock could see his whole body thrumming with it. "The only difference between you and Jack is that Jack couldn't choose his fate. You can. So why are you so hell-bent on removing yourself from the face of the planet?"

"I did what I felt was necessary in order to stop a suspect. I obtained a _result_. Isn't that what you lot care about?" Sherlock shot back. He smoothed the front of his suit jacket again, a nervous tic he knew Lestrade would notice - had always noticed but never commented on - and then abruptly turned away, returning to the kitchen and the experiment Lestrade interrupted. "I'll not be discussing this further. You can see yourself out, I trust."

But Lestrade did the exact opposite, and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. 

"Oh for God's sake Lestrade," Sherlock snapped when Lestrade stepped up beside him, "I'm not going to slit my wrists with the kitchen knife, if that's what you're worried about." 

"Stop acting like a child," Lestrade snapped. “You can't just walk away from something and expect it to be over. I'm not done talking about this, Sherlock!"

Sherlock folded further in on himself, shoulders curling as he hunched over the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. He said nothing. Lestrade slammed the palm of his hand down on the table in frustration. The smack of it reverberated throughout the room, and Sherlock flinched involuntarily.

"Sherlock!"

"Are you still here?" Sherlock said irritably, straightening suddenly as the kettle sounded that the water was ready. 

He pulled himself together to hide how deeply unsettled the show of almost-violence from Lestrade was. He poured water into a cup and took it out to the living room, setting it down before collapsing grandly onto the sofa, wrinkling his nose as he felt the expensive fabric of his suit pull and bind at his shoulders - he'd forgotten he was wearing it and spared a moment to mourn for his tatty blue dressing gown that had long ago fallen victim to one of John's cleaning sprees.

He waved his hand laconically at the door before folding his hands over his chest. "I'll tell John you came by. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll finish your job of telling me just what an idiot I am. Good day, Lestrade."

"You're not an idiot," Lestrade said softly. Sherlock closed his eyes. He could hear it in Lestrade's voice - he'd seen through the facade Sherlock had been fighting to keep in place, and he wasn't going to leave. He never could leave well enough alone, Lestrade couldn't, not when it came to his family. And just like that, Lestrade was echoing Sherlock's thought: "It's just - Christ, it's been a shit day and that stunt you pulled didn't help things any. I'm sorry. I've buried one son, and I'm not too keen on burying another."

"A _son_?" Sherlock repeated, blinking rapidly, feeling his heart beating quickly beneath his folded hands. Then he closed his eyes again, unable to face the thought of meeting Lestrade's eyes when he seemed to somehow be breaking in on Sherlock's private thoughts. Very softly, he murmured, "Don't place that burden on me, Lestrade."

"Can't exactly help that, can I?" Lestrade said. Sherlock heard him shove his hands into his pockets and rock back on his heels. Sherlock cracked his eyes open. Lestrade had dropped his eyes to the floor; now he was the one avoiding Sherlock's gaze. 

"Try," Sherlock said stiffly. "Better for everyone."

"What do you mean, _better_?"  "I mean that it's one thing for you to feel this protective instinct towards Calvin Jack. I - I am not a child, Lestrade. Not your child. Your child is dead and it would kill you to lose another, do you see?" he sat up, bracing his hands between his knees, gazing intently at Lestrade, willing him to understand.

"Like it or not, Sherlock, you do not get to dictate how people feel about you, nor do you get to decide what may or may not be good for my health."

The downstairs door banged open, and they both started. But the pounding footsteps up the stairs were familiar, and they spun away from one another, Lestrade dragging a hand through his hair and Sherlock scrubbing his face, as though they could physically wipe away the traces of their fight. 

“I think you had better go,” Sherlock said quietly, a fraction of a second before Calvin burst into the flat, and Lestrade nodded.

“Hi, Uncle Greg,” Calvin greeted his godfather with some surprise, pleasure temporarily overwriting the distress that Sherlock had seen on his face in the second between when Calvin opened the door and when he registered Lestrade's presence. 

Lestrade gave a smile that Sherlock saw through but which probably wouldn’t be noticeable to Calvin. “Hullo, sport. ‘Fraid I’m off, sorry lad, but I’ll see you Saturday, yeah?”

He nodded to them both, and made a quick exit.

  


* * *

Calvin frowned after his godfather in bewilderment. “What’s up with him?”

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock said calmly, knowing that lying outright to Calvin would only arouse more suspicion. “He... was reminded of a particularly difficult case he worked some years ago. How was school?”

“Fine." His too-casual tone alerted Sherlock to the possibility that he was not the only one acting a part at this moment. "Where’s Papa?” He dropped his bag by the sofa and went into the kitchen, where Sherlock had started to wash some equipment in the sink.

“Out,” Sherlock grunted.

“Out where?”

“I don’t know, Calvin, it’s hardly as though I keep tabs on him. He’s free to do as he pleases. Why are you late?”

“What was that about not keeping tabs?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John is not my ward. You are. And you will always be my child.”

Now it was Calvin’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m almost eighteen.”

There was a pause while Sherlock regarded him heavily.

“So you are,” he said at last. “Who gave you permission to be that old?”

Calvin flushed, and Sherlock went back to washing his beaker. He dried it on a towel and then finally said, “That doesn’t answer my question, by the way.”

“Observant, aren’t you?” Calvin said dryly.

“And still waiting.”

Calvin considered him a moment, his expression unreadable. He has always been a surprise to Sherlock, who never quite knew where the boy’s mind would take him. His childhood had been a guessing-game, and a delightful one at that. And now, even on the brink of adulthood, Calvin remained an enigma in many ways. 

“Why did you fake your death?”

The question rooted him to the spot, and his stomach bottomed out in a way that he hadn’t felt since... Well. Not since he’d stepped off the roof of Barts and plunged to the ground all those years ago. 

“Blink, dad, s’a bit unnerving,” Calvin said nervously.

“Where did you hear that?” Sherlock managed.

“Internet,” Calvin said, but too quick, and Sherlock knew he was lying.

“Try again,” Sherlock snapped. “ _Who_ told you?”

“Answer me first, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Calvin Jack.”

Calvin may have been an enigma, but he was also still young. He broke first under Sherlock’s withering gaze and muttered, “Reporter. Got me just as I was leaving school. But everything out there is right, isn’t it? The newspaper stories, the websites. You _died_ , dad." 

“What did the reporter say?”

“Dad -”

“Calvin!” 

His palm stung. Sherlock blinked, and realised he must have slammed it down on the counter with his last word. Going by Calvin’s wide eyes, that was a safe assumption to make. He was reminded strongly that not ten minutes ago Lestrade had stood just here, feeling just as angry and as helpless as Sherlock felt now. He rubbed his hand absently, considering his next words.

“I... apologise,” Sherlock said finally. “I only - I am not angry at _you_ , Calvin. But I must have an answer. Who spoke to you about this?”

“I don’t know. Some blogger. Ian Hardley." Sherlock tucked the name away for later as Calvin held up his phone. "Looked him up, he's...I mean he's kind of a nutter, kind of obsessed with you. Has this blog..." Calvin’s shoulders sagged, and Sherlock was reminded vividly of the five-year-old who would come into their room at night whenever there was a storm. He was wise enough not to voice the thought, but the comparison was apt. Calvin looked just as uncertain now, as though he couldn’t understand why the world was behaving the way that it was. “He wanted to know what it was like to grow up with famous parents. Why you’re retiring. If I could offer any insights into how you managed to pull off the Great Fall. S’what he called it, anyway.”

Sherlock snorted. “A name no doubt picked up from your Papa. He was fond of calling it that, among other things. Sit down, Calvin.”

Calvin obeyed at once, with haste borne both of eagerness and anticipation. Sherlock remained standing, and set about making tea once more so as to have something to occupy his hands. 

“You’ve heard us speak of Moriarty,” he said at last, and Calvin nodded. It had been hard enough to keep Sherlock’s death from the child; they’d had no hope of also keeping the world’s most notorious criminal mastermind a secret, not when every person in England knew his name after the trial of the century and the entire world after Sherlock’s resurrection. “He... was like me in many ways. He was brilliant, and the world around him was dull. You know of most of his crimes already. That was how he channeled his boredom, and tried to alleviate the tedium.”

“You didn’t resort to that,” Calvin said at once, and Sherlock gave a sad smile at the instant and unquestioning defence.

“Only because I found a different outlet for my frustrations.”

“You wouldn’t have, anyway,” Calvin insisted vehemently, and Sherlock decided not to press the matter. 

“He decided that I was the closest thing he would ever have to an equal, and took a special interest in me. An interest, I should clarify, that would end with my death, in his mind. He only intended to keep me around for as long as I proved entertaining. Needless to say, it didn’t take too long for his interest to fade. And after that, I was disposable.”

“What happened?”

“You’ll have to read John’s actual write-up of the case that preceded my death. I won’t bore you with the details right now." Calvin's incredulous huff told him that anything he might choose to divulge right now would be the opposite of _boring_ , but Sherlock resisted any temptation to elucidate. "Moriarty and I met on the roof of Barts one morning about four years before you were born. He gave me a choice -- Either I kill myself, or he would kill my three closest friends.”

“Papa,” Calvin guessed at once. “And Uncle Greg. And...” Calvin hesitated. “Aunt Molly?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Mrs Hudson, but as you never really knew her, it’s hardly surprising that she wouldn’t come to mind.”

“But... you must have known what he had in mind. Since... you know, you’re alive.”

Sherlock nodded. “I had an idea. I knew he wanted me dead, and that I had no desire to be at that moment. I enlisted Mycroft’s help, and Molly’s. We came up with a plan that would allow me to survive a six-story drop. Theoretically, at least. There was no way to test it, and no time.”

“Were you with Papa then?”

"No. He was six storeys below me, watching me jump. It was necessary for him to see me die. In order for Moriarty to let them live, they had to believe that I was dead."

Calvin's eyes widened and he looked pale; clearly processing the horrifying implications of this statement. But then he shook his head. "No, dad, I mean, were you _together_. Like, you know, a couple."

Sherlock hesitated. Odd how nearly twenty-three years didn't make that question any easier to answer. “No. We were -”

_Just friends_ , his brain supplied automatically, but _friends_ had never described them, not since the first day they had known one another. Not since John had put a bullet in one man to save another he barely knew. 

“We had yet to really get to know one another,” Sherlock said instead, though even that was not entirely true, but Calvin nodded, satisfied. “But still, Moriarty had used him before to strike at me, and so... he saw me fall. He had to. I will.... always regret that he had to witness that. I returned within the year, but those are months he should not have had to endure. They are a burden your papa, and Uncle Greg, are still carrying. I was not assured of his forgiveness when I returned, and to this day I am not entirely sure I earned his trust back. Not completely.” 

“But...you saved him.”

Sherlock blinked. Calvin was staring at him earnestly. “Sorry?”

_"You saved him_ ,” Calvin repeated, in the tone of voice he used when his fathers were being too thick to be believed, only this time it was also tinged with awe. “And Uncle Greg. _By jumping off a building_.” A grin broke out across his face. “Dad, that’s _brilliant_. Bit mad, too, but mostly brilliant. Kind of makes you a hero.”

“Don’t make people into heroes, Calvin,” Sherlock said automatically, and Calvin fixed him with a look.

“Too late, Dad.”

  


* * *

“What’s up with you?” John asked after dinner that night. Calvin had retreated to his room. To do homework, so he’d said, but while his parents didn’t contradict him, they weren’t fooled. He had been chatting on his mobile ever since, and there was little doubt that it was Skye to whom he was talking. John finished drying the plate Sherlock handed him, and reached up to put it away.

Sherlock didn’t deny John’s assumption, for which he was grateful. It’d been a bad day, not his worst but certainly one that would sit uneasily in his memory for some time. There had been too many children, too many advanced diseases, and too few cures.

“Can you truly not guess?”

John shook his head. Sherlock washed in silence for a moment. He finished three wine glasses and handed them off to John before saying, “I've not had so many answerphone messages in months, not since the Dawson case.”

“Ah.” John rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, remembering now the conversation they’d had earlier in the week, realising that, with one thing and another, although they'd successfully communicated the news of Sherlock's retirement to Greg and Calvin, they'd never truly resolved the tension that crackled around Sherlock when John tried to broach the topic of their move to the country. And though Sherlock had come home to him that night, they had yet to speak openly about it, beyond what John had said in the messages he'd left for Sherlock. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was - look, just forget it.”

Sherlock turned off the tap, and the kitchen rang for a moment with silence.

“John,” he said quietly, turning to him, “how can I just forget it? You were upset.” 

“Yeah, at the time, but that was days ago -”

“Do you really believe I think so little of you?” Sherlock shook his head. “It was I who was mistaken.”

“Sorry, what?”

A fleeting smile touched Sherlock’s lips.

“I shan’t be repeating that. Nonetheless, it is true. You - you are astounding, John, did you know?”

John felt himself flush, and tried to will the colour away.

“Stop,” he said, but Sherlock placed a finger under his chin and tilted his head up so that their eyes met.

“I’m a selfish man, John,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve spent all these weeks preoccupied with the thought of asking Lestrade to move to the country, so much so that I hadn't stopped to consider that you were feeling as apprehensive as I. About the move, about my retirement. And it kills me to know that, do you hear?”

“Sherlock -” John tried, and then stopped. He didn’t know what was going to follow that utterance, and hadn’t realized it until it was already out of his mouth.

“You do nothing short of hold this family together, John, for which I am grateful.” Sherlock released him and resumed washing the dishes. “And too often that goes unacknowledged, which is a severe oversight on my part. And on Cal’s.

“I’ll talk to Lestrade at the end of the week. And then....” Sherlock trailed off.

“The bees?” John supplied, and was rewarded with a rare grin.

“Yes, my love,” Sherlock said, oddly affectionate. He leaned in for a kiss. “The bees.”

“Nice as this is,” John said some minutes later, “I don’t think we’ve quite covered all that’s bothering you.”

“I hardly know where to begin,” Sherlock admitted on a long sigh. He finished the last plate, and handed it to John.

“The beginning?” John suggested cheekily, and Sherlock flicked sudsy water at him. 

“Marvelous, John, _really_. How do you do it?”

“Cute, but stop trying to distract me. Give it up.”

And so Sherlock did, starting with Lestrade's appearance at the flat this afternoon, all the way through through to Cal’s encounter with the blogger. 

John frowned heavily as Sherlock recounted the outcome of the case, though he wasn’t surprised, and everything he would have said Lestrade had done already. But then Sherlock got to the reporter, and Cal, and by the time he ran out of words John was fuming.

“Those -” he sputtered. “Those - fucking _hell_ , Sherlock -”

“I know,” Sherlock said, calmly, though a twitch of his hand and the jump of a muscle in his cheek belied his anger. _"Those_ , indeed. Cal doesn’t seem to have been particularly harmed by learning this information, but it’s the fact that someone had the gall to approach him at all that worries me. He’ll be off at university next year -”

“ - and we won’t be around him enough to know if things like this are still happening. Yes, I know.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “He can handle himself, of course, but he shouldn’t _have_ to, you know? Not when it comes to this. He should have as normal a time as possible while at school.”

“Indeed.”

John shook his head. “And should I even bother being angry with you about today?”

“Lestrade has likely said all that you would have.”

“I figured as much.” John sighed. He was glad of it, in all truth, because he found that he didn’t have enough in his reserves to truly be furious with Sherlock. It was a similar story to the night twenty-one years ago, when Sherlock had returned and all John had thought was, _Oh. So that’s what happened._

“Don’t be angry with him.”

Sherlock and John both whirled on the spot. Calvin stood uncertainly behind them, his phone clutched in one hand, looking desperately at John. 

“It’s not his fault I found out,” Calvin said quickly, “and don’t be angry with him for jumping in the first place - the first time, I mean. It was Moriarty’s doing, see, and -” 

“Calvin,” John broke in, slightly hurt, “why do you always assume that I’m angry with Dad?”

“He has been nothing but supportive since my return,” Sherlock said, his response quick and firm, leaving no room to argue. “Please don’t think otherwise.” 

John felt his lips quirk and he half-turned to his husband, offering his half-smile as silent thanks for his support. After all these years, it was brilliant to hear the words out loud. 

“Oh.” Calvin went red, and blinked at them. “I just thought - I mean, in your place, I might’ve -”

What he didn’t say, _if Skye had done that to me_ , was palpable in the air, evident in the way he clutched his phone - his main link to his far-away friend - and John relaxed. “Contrary to popular belief,” he said, “I forgave your dad long ago.”

“You - what? Oh.”

John snorted. “I was angry, to be sure, but mostly because he hadn’t taken me along with him. I thought it meant that he didn’t trust me. Turns out, he was only trying to protect me. Protect us all. I know the tabloids have their own version of our reunion, and people like to imagine that he had to work for my forgiveness, like some second-rate soap opera. It wasn’t like that. We just -”

“Carried on,” Sherlock supplied, and John nodded, smirking. 

“How British of us.”

  


* * *

Sherlock knocked on Lestrade's door before using the key to enter. He knew that Lestrade would know what this meant - that he'd come to make peace. They hadn't spoken, beyond communicating by text about the case, since their fight days ago.

Lestrade greeted him with a tilt of his head and a stiff wave towards Sherlock's usual chair. Toby, more enthusiastic than his master but well used to Sherlock's indifference towards him, thumped his tail heavily on the floor, sniffing Sherlock's shoes before going to fetch his favourite chew toy, settling himself on the floor by Sherlock's feet.

"I'm only waiting on some results from the lab to confirm the identity of the murderer," Sherlock began, folding his hands in his lap.

Lestrade grunted, watching Toby worry the ratty tail on the stuffed fox he loved so much. "Surprised you're not there hanging over the tech's shoulder."

Sherlock shrugged. "It feels..." He trailed off, swallowing and licking his lips, rearranging his hands, anything to avoid thinking about what he was about to say. "It all feels rather anticlimactic. 'Sherlock's Last Case.' ‘A Case for a King.’ Waiting on a few bits of DNA to put away a man already in police custody. I find myself...unable to..."

Sherlock shook his head. "Process." He glanced up at Lestrade. "I'm not a sentimental man, Lestrade, but I - "

Lestrade's rough laugh had Sherlock glaring at him, lips clamped together.

Lestrade gave a brief smile, waving a vague apology. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"I've nothing to say that you aren't likely to find ridiculous," Sherlock snapped.

"Sunshine," Lestrade said, settling back in his chair, a hint of a smile playing around his lips, "when have I ever found you anything other than ridiculous? Come on then, give me. What's got the unsentimental Sherlock Holmes so lost for words tonight? Have you come to tell me that you jumped off that damn bridge because this Last Case business has been going to your head? God," he continued without waiting for an answer, not that Sherlock had one to give, speaking aloud as though Sherlock weren't there, processing thoughts as they came. "I'd forgotten that about you. How could I have forgotten? You never felt more alive than when you were risking your neck. John changed all that, didn't he? No. He didn't. He made you even worse - better, 'course, but worse. God I love him, but he didn't change that in you, Calvin did."

Lestrade sighed and fell silent, and Sherlock found that it was curiously difficult to breathe. Forcing words from his suddenly dry mouth, he blurted, "Calvin has the tendency to change things because he is constantly _changing._ I can't keep up with him, Greg. He - " Sherlock broke off, shaking his head.

Leaning forward, concerned, Lestrade asked, "Is he all right?"

Sherlock jerked a nod, pressing the heel of his hand to his throbbing temple. "He and Skye are fighting constantly, apparently. He told me that they can't seem to get it right and they can't let each other go. That every day it's either the best day ever or they're trying to tear each other apart."

Lestrade made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. "Sounds a bit familiar, eh?"

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade laughed. He lifted himself from his chair, striding over to where he'd left his phone, picking it up and scrolling through it, not looking at Sherlock. 

When he spoke his voice still held a grating quality - he hadn't quite forgiven Sherlock. "Sounds like you and John, I mean. Caught in each others' orbits. Stupidly in love for every good reason. Forgiving each other for unforgivable things." 

Sherlock stopped himself, swallowing the words, _Skye told Calvin that he should be grateful we want to take you away from this city that you love to be together, to live purposefully through these last days, acknowledging the end and welcoming it as a family._

“Calvin found out about my death.”

And just like that, the previous fight had been pushed aside; the tension, dissipated. In an instant they were united by concern for Calvin--what had _always_ united them. 

Lestrade sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re kidding. _How_?" 

Sherlock snorted. “Apparently the media are so pressed for news that my retirement announcement has caused something of a stir. A reporter - no, a _blogger_ \- caught Cal on his way home from school, and asked him a number of questions about our plans for my retirement and the incident on the bridge - and, in the process, revealed the Fall.”

Lestrade’s jaw clenched. “That bastard.”

“He has been taken care of,” Sherlock said decisively. “John and I saw to that. However...”

Lestrade gazed expectantly at him. Sherlock looked up at Lestrade through heavy eyes. “It brings up a valid point.”

“Oh?”

“I am retiring,” Sherlock repeated. “It has.... always been my plan to move to the country when my work here is finished. Even before John, I knew that’s what I would do.”

“I see.” Lestrade lowered himself onto a nearby chair. Toby trotted over and set his head on Lestrade’s knee. “When will you be leaving?”

“That depends.”

“On...?”

“On...” Sherlock trailed off, and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, but couldn’t meet Lestrade’s gaze. He said to the floor, “On whether or not you will be coming with us.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair.

“Ah,” he said slowly. “I see.”

He stared at the opposite wall for a moment, and then pushed himself out of his chair to go stand by the window. 

“You’ve been dreading this one for a while, haven’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, trusting that his silence would be answer enough. Lestrade nodded to himself.

“Don’t think I ever told you this, but I almost left London. Right after Jack died. Cheryl and I talked about going, just picking up and leaving everything...” He trailed off. “Even after the divorce, I thought about it now and then.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Lestrade turned to look at him. 

“Because you were still here.”

“Oh.”

“That still surprises you.” Lestrade looked bemused. “It shouldn’t, you know, because you aren’t going to leave at all if I don’t agree to go with you. It works both ways, Sherlock.” 

Lestrade broke into a sudden grin that wiped years off his face. “So yeah, I’ll come with you. Of course I will.”

Sherlock stared at him for some moments. He could feel as the silence quickly passed from brief to remarkable, and realized that he was expected to say something.

“Oh,” was all Sherlock managed again, because he hadn’t expected Lestrade to agree. He had spent the week planning for other alternatives - could they move him into Baker Street? Calvin’s old room would be no good, not with the flight of seventeen steps one had to climb to get to it, but perhaps Alice would consider renting 221C, which was on the ground floor, but the thought of Lestrade in that damp old basement room, starved for sunlight and excitement with only their footsteps above his head for company, had - 

_"Sherlock!"_ Lestrade’s voice was harsh, and carried with it the tone of someone who had been repeating himself for some moments. “You in there?” 

“I -” Sherlock swiped the tip of his tongue across cracked lips and admitted, “This was unexpected.”

“Don’t ever let it be said that I can’t surprise you anymore,” Lestrade said, looking amused. He walked back over to his chair and sat down. “How’d Cal take it, by the way? Finding out about your death, I mean.”

“Better than he took the idea of an impending move,” Sherlock said, wincing inwardly at the memory of that particular conversation. “He... seemed proud.”

What he refrained from saying was that it had been a relief to hear those words at last; refreshing to have someone react to his story with sympathy and gratitude rather than anger. Lestrade stared at him a moment.

“That boy,” he said at last, very slowly, “will never stop astounding me. Sometimes I think he’s got a better grasp on things than the three of us put together.”

_Did he?_ Sherlock mused to himself, because for all his brilliance Calvin was still a boy. He had not yet acquired the intelligence that came only through experience, as the majority of his seventeen years had been spent learning autonomy - reading and writing and tying his shoelaces. Essential, superfluous things that got in the way of acquiring truly useful information. 

No, Lestrade was not quite right. Calvin was fascinating, yes, but it was _John_ who would truly never stop astounding Sherlock. John, who had known all his failings and married him anyway. John, who had openly wept the first time he held Calvin, his face pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder while the baby, nestled in the crook of his arm, slumbered between their bodies. John, who had steadfastly documented every one of Sherlock’s cases for twenty-three years, and who never ceased to be amazing.

“I worry about him,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Yeah, so do I. But I mean it, he's got a good grasp on things, and -”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. He shook his head. “John.”

Lestrade blinked for a moment, face gone slack with bemusement. “John?”

“I can guess what retirement will do to me, and therefore can plan for any number of contingencies.” Sherlock shook his head. “But I can only speculate as to the effect it will have on John. For twenty-three years, he has lived through his words. The man can’t _not_ write. What will happen to him when the story ends?”

But Lestrade was no longer looking confused, or even slightly concerned. Quite unexpectedly, his face bloomed into a smile.

"Sherlock," he said, "this story never ends."


End file.
